


Hold On, We're Home

by siskins



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:59:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7310440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siskins/pseuds/siskins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Ghost who finds her first. He appears from the shadows of the castle ramparts, silent as ever, his white fur almost luminous against the darkness, effectively unlocking Sansa’s gaze from the newly re-erected Stark banners. // Post S6,E09 BotB. Spoilers for that episode and for the preview of S6,E10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold On, We're Home

**Author's Note:**

> My shamelessly idealistic take on what I would like to hope happens between Jon and Sansa after the battle. This is also my first Jonsa fic, after a long time of lurking in the background. I had fun with them and I'm sorry if it's not up to scratch. Spoilers for S6E09 and S6E10 preview. Reviews always appreciated.

It’s Ghost who finds her first. He appears from the shadows of the castle ramparts, silent as ever, his white fur almost luminous against the darkness, effectively unlocking Sansa’s gaze from the newly re-erected Stark banners.

There was a time when the direwolf’s eerie red eyes, so very different from the others’, would’ve startled her, frightened her even. Not any more. Sansa knows fear now, knows the acidic taste of it and bears the scars.

She watches as Ghost pads towards her carefully, and she sees something of Jon in his eyes. Something she can’t quite put her finger on. Something pure but dangerous all at the same time.

It’s only when he reaches her, gladly nuzzling into her unconsciously outstretched hand that she realises how cold she is, a numbness she hadn’t acknowledged had taken over dissipating alarmingly fast. Bitterly cold air floods her lungs at her sharp intake of breath, Ghost’s soft, leathery nose almost scorching her frozen skin, his fur invitingly warm as she threads her fingers through it gratefully. The Gods only know how long she’s been out here for now.

With each step she had taken away from Winterfell’s kennels, Sansa had felt her composure begin to inwardly crumble. Her eyes had started to sting in the wintery air, a shard of ice lodged in her throat.

 _All memory of you will disappear_ , she had said. And yet, the image of the hounds ripping her monstrous husband to a monstrous end seemed imprinted upon her mind; even the tears burning in the corners of her eyes failing to wash it away.

She had walked without thinking, without knowing where she was going, without really caring. Her heart had hammered painfully in her chest and she heard the word _Rickon Rickon Rickon_ in every beat. It hurt her inexplicably that he’s gone – another of her family snatched cruelly away, another innocent life stolen. It hurt her more that she’s not even surprised. They won Winterfell back but lost yet another Stark to reside within it.

If there’s one thing Sansa has learnt, it’s that everything has a price.

Her steps had continued, aimless but persistent, taking her further and further from her nightmare while she waited to feel something other than anger. A seething, unladylike anger that it’s still not enough, that Ramsay Bolton didn’t die a thousand more deaths than just the one, that he took so much more from her than she could ever take from him.

 _Perhaps he was right_ , she thought. _Perhaps he has become part of me._

The thought turned her stomach and that’s when her step finally faltered, her hands finding purchase on the cold castle walls. Stray tears leaked from her eyes and she swatted them with frustration, feeling weeks, months, years of forced stoicism unravelling all at once.

It had surprised her how high she had climbed without taking note of the effort, the sigil of her house on their banners level now with her eyesight. She stood entranced by the thick fabric blowing gently in the wind, small flakes of snow starting to gather on the rigging. Winter is coming.

Sansa doesn’t know how much time elapsed between then and Ghost finding her. Long enough to feel the cold in her bones, anyway. She shivers deeply, leaning into Ghost’s warm body involuntarily. He’s so much bigger than she remembers, so much more imposing than she imagines Lady ever would’ve been, and she’s never been more grateful for him. Her fingers comb through his thick, soft fur some more and he rubs his great head against her hip, emitting a low, contented rumble just discernible above the wind.

“We’re home, Ghost,” she breathes, more to herself than to the direwolf. Home. What a strange concept it is to her now. She looks down to find Ghost’s blazing, intelligent eyes on her again. Once more, she recognises a shadow of his master lurking in their depths and it occurs to Sansa that she’s only felt at home once since leaving Winterfell all those years ago, and it wasn’t when she rode back through its gates earlier alongside Lord Baelish. It was seeing Jon again.

Jon, who she almost lost. Again.

Unbidden, images of the battle flood her mind, of her half-brother – brother – battered, bloody and very nearly broken. And still stronger than any other man she’s ever known, perhaps even her father. The thought of how close she came to losing him to Ramsay Bolton stirs the most unsustainable emotions within her and a sound that’s terrible even to her own ears, something between a howl and a wretch, breaks free.

Ghost whines uneasily in response, his ears pricked up, eyes alert, stance rigid and somewhat predatory, searching for the source of her turmoil. Sansa attempts to reassure him, stroking behind his ears with shaking fingers, but a dam appears to have broken and she begins to choke on anguished sobs that she’s bottled up for a long, long time.

Wantonly, she wonders if the direwolf would be so apparently loyal to her if Jon had fallen, if she hadn’t got there in time with Baelish’s army. The army she didn’t tell him about - couldn’t tell him about, for so many reasons. _I wouldn’t deserve it_ , she thinks with a pang of regret.

“I did what I had to,” she chokes out imploringly, as if Ghost could understand her, as if he’ll help her to convince Jon that she didn’t withhold information to hurt him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Ghost whines again, louder this time, a long, lamentable sound that makes the hairs on the back of Sansa’s neck prickle. She makes to soothe him but his attention suddenly seems fixed on something other than her ministrations.

Sansa follows Ghost’s gaze, an involuntary gasp escaping her as her eyes land on her brother – the word still doesn’t sit right with her, but not, she feels, for the same reasons it used to – standing just to the side behind them in the shadows. He’s just as silent as Ghost, she remembers nostalgically. She expects the direwolf to go straight to Jon, but he remains a sentinel at her side. The shock of seeing him is evened out by the sudden inner calmness that she’s come to find when she’s near him.

In spite of this, hot tears race a fresh, scalding trail down her frost-bitten cheeks as she takes in Jon’s appearance. He’s no longer dressed for battle, no longer caked in mud, blood and sweat, but that only serves to highlight the amount of bruises and cuts covering his face alone. Some will likely scar, she notes regretfully. More to add to the collection.

“How long have you been standing there?” she asks, her voice raspy, meeting his dark, unfathomable gaze as firmly as she can. The last time she’d seen him, he had led her wordlessly to her husband, jaw clenched, still-bleeding hands bound into tight fists, and left her there, convinced that the bridges they had built between them recently had all burned away thanks to her secrecy.

“Why are you not inside, Sansa?” he replies, ignoring her question entirely and apparently ignoring her tears, too. Her name on his lips ignites an emotion she’s grown as used to as she’s grown confused about since reuniting with him. It pleases her to hear it in spite of herself; she had half expected him to start addressing her as ‘my Lady’ now. “Your quarters were prepared for you hours ago.”

Her stomach twists and she pales visibly at the thought of going back into that room right now. It’s her room, yes, but her memories of it have changed somewhat thanks to the Boltons. Jon’s frown deepens slightly, his eyes roaming over her face as he takes a cautious step towards her.

“I- I’d rather not be in that room anymore,” Sansa manages to reply, unable to feign detachment any longer. “If that’s OK. It just reminds me of… Him.” She barely suppresses a shudder as she trails off; she’s told him enough of the cruelty she endured at Ramsay’s hands, and in his bed – her bed – to not need to expand any further.

Jon draws closer again, a pained expression on his face, a slow-burning rage still brewing in his dark, stormy eyes. Ghost nudges her forwards with his bulk, nuzzling his head into her hand as he does so.

“Sansa, I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly, his guard slipping slightly. “I didn’t think, I should’ve thought…”

“It’s fine.” She cuts him off, raising her head and squaring her shoulders some. Behind the tears still glistening in her eyes, Jon recognises the steel his sweet Sansa is made of now. It both pleases and pains him at the same time. “He’s gone now.”

Her words are cold and unforgiving. Jon holds her gaze and she waits for him to judge her for what she’s done, for what she wanted, for feeling that it will never be enough. She knows he must know by now how Ramsay met his fate. She finds no judgement in his expression, though. Only a fierce look of respect and a morbid satisfaction. There’s the slightest flicker of something else, too, but Sansa cannot identify it.

“I thought I would feel better about it,” she tells him after a beat of silence, winding her fingers through Ghost’s fur absentmindedly. “I only feel…angry. He took so much from me. From us.”

Her gaze roves hungrily over Jon’s injured face, the relief that he’s still alive, that he made it, that he kept his word, only just truly sinking in. _He’s still handsome, if not more so_ , she thinks before she can stop herself, berating herself for thinking such trivial, shallow, inappropriate thoughts at such a time.

“Thank you,” she whispers when he still does not speak, putting as much feeling into her words as she can muster. “Thank you for everything. For fighting when you didn’t want to fight anymore. For protecting me when I don’t deserve it.”

“I’ll always protect you, Sansa,” Jon insists, animated suddenly, moving to place his hands gently on either side of her face. His strong, calloused fingers are warm against her cold, wet cheeks and she leans into his touch, eyes closing of their own accord, her breath catching in her throat as his thumbs brush the sensitive skin in the hollows beneath her eyes. “For as long as you want me to, I’ll protect you. I meant what I said and I didn’t only mean it for Ramsay Bolton. No one will ever touch you again, not unless you want them to.”

His hands leave her face as he says this and her eyes flutter open to find him watching her meaningfully. Her heartbeat skips and she draws in a shaky breath. There’s an accusation among the raw emotion in his bottomless eyes and Sansa thinks she knows what he’s referring to.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Lord Baelish.” The words are heavy on her tongue, acrid. Jon’s guard is back up somewhat when she meets his gaze again.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, reaching up to wipe another tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. Her bottom lip trembles. Can these really be the same hands that almost beat her torturer to a pulp only a few hours ago?

“I couldn’t be sure he would come,” she explains, catching his hand in her own as it drops from her face, her icy fingers gripping his tightly. “I couldn’t trust him enough.”

“Evidently you couldn’t trust me, either,” Jon snaps gruffly, but he doesn’t pull his hand from hers. “You had so many opportunities to say something and you said nothing. You even argued that we didn’t have enough men and still you said nothing.”

“I knew you’d be angry with me,” Sansa retorts, fire burning in her Tully blue eyes, tangling her fingers with his. “I knew you would refuse his help. And I knew that if, _if_ , he was going to help – and we needed his help, Jon – he had to think he was only helping me.”

 _Telling you sooner wouldn’t have saved Rickon_ , she wants to say. _We were fools to ever think we would get him back._ But she lets the words die, unspoken on her tongue; some things are better left unsaid.

Jon sighs deeply, reaching for her face again with his free hand, observing her for a long time. He feels more at home looking into her eyes than he does looking around this castle. And yet, unlike Winterfell, she’s nothing like he remembers her. She seems a whole new person to him now. Strong, smart and just as scarred as him. _And beautiful_ , a voice in the back of his head adds, unwilling to be suppressed, despite his best efforts.

On impulse, he guides her forehead gently to his lips, pressing a tender, lingering kiss there, squeezing her fingers with his own.

“We have to trust each other, Sansa,” he breathes, resting his forehead softly against hers, closing exhausted, tormented eyes. “We have so many enemies now.”

Sansa swallows hard, nodding minutely against him. She can smell soap and leather and Jon and it’s enough to momentarily make Winterfell feel like home again.

“I’m not stupid, Jon,” she says, reluctantly leaning away from him to meet his gaze. “I know his help comes with a price. I know Baelish will want something in return.”

“Aye, he’ll want something alright,” he growls, resentment and anger flashing so dangerously in his eyes she feels a spark of fear in the pit of her stomach. His nostrils flare as he breathes deeply, bringing the hand still trapped between her fingers up to his face so that he can kiss the back of her knuckles with a tenderness that’s so contrary to the dark emotions in his eyes.

They remain silent for several moments, almost sizing one another up, each acutely aware of the odd energy that crackles between them. A sudden, violent shiver runs through Sansa that she feels is only partly caused by the cold numbing her limbs.

As if waking from a trance, Jon shakes into action, pulling the cloak from around his broad shoulders and draping it around Sansa. It’s heavier than hers and she almost melts into its warmth, her fingers drawing the fur closer around her, unable to resist breathing in the scent of it. It smells of Jon, of home, of safety.

“Will you allow me to escort you inside now, Sansa?” Jon asks, an unreadable expression on his face as her regards her now, her blue eyes brighter than usual from crying, lips and cheeks red from the cold, braid of fiery hair tucked beneath his cloak. “You can have my chamber.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, Jon,” she replies. “I’ll find another room and prepare it myself. Some of them were left untouched by…them…”

“You didn’t ask, I offered,” he insists, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips as Ghost attempt to shepherd her in the right direction. Jon reaches out a hand to ruffle Ghost’s fur in admiration. “I want you to have it, and so does he, apparently.”

Sensing defeat, Sansa complies, a relieved thank you falling from her lips as they begin towards his quarters. Even under Jon’s cloak the cold wind whips around her bitterly and she quickens her pace as a craving for warmth takes hold. Ghost pads alongside her, so close that her skirts brush against his fur. She privately marvels at how unaffected Jon seems by the elements now and wonders sadly if this is another consequence of his rebirth, as it were.

“How did you find me?” she asks suddenly, the question occurring to her just as they make it to the door of his chamber. She’d been out there a while without seeing a soul; she had assumed everyone was sleeping, exhausted from the battle.

“I was looking for Ghost,” he replies, inclining his head towards the direwolf who slinks towards the fire as soon as the door is open wide enough for him to squeeze through.

“How did Ghost find me, for that matter? Where was he today?” Sansa couldn’t recall seeing him at the battle once.

“He was probably looking for you. I ordered him to stay behind and to find you afterwards should I have fallen.” He says it so offhand, as if he’s merely telling her about the weather. “He was to stay with you and protect you as I would.”

It takes a minute for the gravity of Jon’s gruff words to settle in and Sansa feels as if her heart has swollen into her throat.

“You could’ve died, he could’ve helped you,” she admonishes, wide-eyed as she reluctantly lets his cloak fall from her shoulders despite the warmth of the room.

“Aye,” he agrees, turning to her while rubbing at his face tiredly, wincing as the movement aggravates the myriad of cuts and bruises there. “I could’ve died, and he could’ve died, too, and then neither of us could’ve protected you from that monster.”

Ghost keens from where he’s curled by the fire, his red eyes melancholy when he shifts to rest his head against his great paws.

Sansa regards them both, words entirely failing her. Years of being fed false promises, false notions of safety and cruelty under the guise of honour have hardened her, forced her to strike a line through all of those fantasies she used to so love dreaming about. The fantasies of knights in shining armour, coming to the rescue of the damsel in distress.

Jon is not the knight she ever envisioned, and no one can protect anyone these days. But maybe Jon can try.

 “Jon,” she whispers, wondering how she could ever have been so foolish as a child to think anything but the world of him. There’s a deep-rooted, selfless sincerity in his eyes as he gazes at her, something she might once have mistaken for obstinate sullenness, and it sends a fissure through her heart.

Rather than struggle for words any longer, Sansa bridges the gap between them with three long strides, crashing into him unabashedly, flinging her arms around his neck tightly. He reacts instinctively, catching her in the same strong grip as when she first saw him at Castle Black, the power in his arms taking her breath away as he lifts her off her feet momentarily, injuries be damned.

Forcing herself to breathe deeply, Sansa melts into his embrace, shivering as he squeezes her to him. Her hands grip fistfuls of his shirt and she nuzzles her face into his neck, relishing the soft scratchiness of his beard against her skin. _Now I’m home_ , she thinks.

The gentle press of a kiss against the side of her forehead has her eyes fluttering open, wondering how long they’d been closed for, wondering why this feels like the most natural thing in the world for them to be doing. Her face is snug in the crook of his neck, her body truly warm for the first time in what feels like forever.

Some small part of her tells her she should probably pull away now; if people could see them they would likely think it odd behaviour, half sibling or otherwise. But Jon makes no move to loosen his grip and, after all, no one can see them. Nor does Sansa quite have the energy to care what others would think any more; those days are long gone. Why should finding whatever comfort she can in this life with Jon be deemed any less appropriate than a marriage arranged against her will to a monster?

 “Did today really happen?” Sansa asks him, breaking the silence, her eyes drooping closed again at the feel of his hands rubbing up and down her back comfortingly. Images of the hounds, of Ramsay’s smug face even in death, of Rickon’s crumpled, lifeless body dance before her, just as she feared they would, but the press of her cold nose against Jon’s warm skin makes it slightly more bearable, his body anchoring her to the present.

She thinks of Bran and Arya, wherever they are, - if they’re still anywhere – and wonders if they’ll ever return home, too. She thinks of all of the men who died for Winterfell today and wonders about the families they left behind, grief clawing at her soul. She thinks of Lord Baelish, somewhere within these castle walls, and wonders wearily how long she can keep the upper hand in their relationship now that they are all indebted to him.

“What do we do now?” Sansa questions, feeling more overwhelmed and exhausted than ever before. She can scarcely imagine how much worse Jon must feel. She loosens her desperate grip on the fabric of his shirt, sliding her hands from around his neck, trying not to take note of the broad, muscular lines of his shoulders as she does so. He moves as she moves, releasing his hold on her only to capture both of her hands as they fall at her sides and Sansa wonders sadly whether affection has always come so naturally to him.

“What do you want to do?” he responds at long last. There are black circles under his fatigued eyes and sorrow in his expression, but his tone is genuine. He rubs his thumbs across the knuckles of her hands and Sansa tries to remember the last time someone actually asked her that question.

“Sleep,” she answers honestly, a small, bittersweet smile playing at her lips. She knows that’s not quite what he meant - or maybe it was, she’s too tired to know any more. Jon exhales a short laugh, understanding in his eyes.

“Then sleep, my sweet Sansa,” he tells her, the words sliding from his tongue without thought, as if he’s never referred to her as anything else. Warmth spreads right through her, a yearning for more, gratitude that they found each other again and that they still have each other now. “I’ll have your things brought here,” he says, making to leave.

“No,” she says, louder than she had intended, gripping his forearms tightly. Ghost’s ears prick up, flames from the fire reflected in his hot red eyes as he watches them.

“What’s wrong?” Jon asks, submitting to her and remaining where he stands.

“Don’t go.” Sansa’s voice is quiet but her eyes are fierce as she holds his gaze. “Please,” she adds. “I already don’t sleep well and I’m afraid to close my eyes. Even after today. Especially after today.” She holds her head high as she speaks, feeling no shame in her fear. Besides, she knows that peaceful sleep evades Jon, too.

Jon considers her with unreadable eyes, a frown marring his handsome features. There’s a nakedness to her expression that almost makes him want to blush and look away. But she’s trusting him with what’s left of the sensitivity that once defined her and he’ll return it with nothing but respect. He nods slowly, wordlessly, not missing the quiet relief that washes over her face.

“I’ll be here as long as you want me,” he vows, his voice low and sincere. It gives Sansa strength, breathing easier than she has done for a long time.

“Thank you,” she replies, entwining her fingers with his loosely. Jon takes a small step closer to her, the air crackling between them just as before. Sansa feels her pulse quicken inexplicably and she wonders again at why Jon, of all people, is the only person to have ever affected her like this.

Perhaps it is the thrill of being reunited still, she thinks. The thrill of still being alive. The thrill of being home again, in spite of all they have lost. Perhaps.

Her thoughts are interrupted as Jon leans ever closer and presses the softest of kisses against her cheek. For the briefest, most savage of moments, Sansa deliberates turning her face to the side to meet his lips with her own and satisfy the sudden tingling in them. The force of the urge almost scares her and she has to suppress a whimper as he pulls away from her, leaving her cheek burning in the most delicious of ways.

“Anything, Sansa,” he tells her, voice and eyes like molten lava, his hands holding hers tightly. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

The weight of his words takes her breath away and she feels exhaustion that’s verging on delirium confuse her understanding of them. His eyes burn into hers and she suddenly has to close her own, partly because she can no longer fight the tiredness, and partly because she’s concerned that if she looks at him any longer she’ll act upon these new, wayward impulses.

“Go to bed, Sansa,” he says softly, giving her hands one last squeeze before letting her go, the hint of a smile lifting the corner of his mouth as she forces herself to blink up at him sleepily. “We might have Winterfell back, but our fight is nowhere near over and I need you to be ready to fight with me.”

Sansa nods, taking a deep breath – she doesn’t want to think on that just yet. She hesitates momentarily, wanting to ask him to join her but feeling nervous about how he might react – how she might react, in truth. She holds her silence though, knowing he’ll rest when he’s ready.

“Go,” he insists. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Sansa gives in, retiring to bed and finally allowing sleep to take her, Jon’s words a comforting mantra in her head, enough, she thinks, to keep her demons at bay.


End file.
